A Portrait of a Tortured You and I
by Cameron Kennedy
Summary: Three nations. Two walls. One year, and one awful mistake to confront - "Anything," Prussia finally admits out loud. "I'd do ANYTHING to get us all out of this mess with our necks intact."
1. Just

**Summary:** Three nations. Two walls. One year, and one awful mistake to confront - "Anything," Prussia finally admits out loud. "I'd do ANYTHING to get us all out of this mess with our necks intact."

**Less Eloquent Summary:** Prussia leaves East Germany behind and learns that pretty much everyone's been an idiot while he'd been gone. Seriously.  
(This first chapter serves as more of a prologue than anything.)

**Warnings:** Contains violence, trauma, and a lot - no really, a lot - of implied sexuality (no smut).

**Just a Heads-Up:** This story takes place in the same universe as an older fic of mine titled _This Hurricane_ and could tentatively be called a sequel. However, if you don't want to bother with the "first" one, then don't fret: this can also be a proper stand-alone piece of fiction. You'll just gain a lot of extra spoilers if you're working backwards and will miss allusions to the original.  
**For those who _have_ read _This Hurricane_**, don't expect for this story to be a copy rewritten for the middle of a different war or something. Expect for this to follow history relatively well. Expect to have your heart broken. Expect to be angry, with the characters and/or with me.  
Carry on.

**Music on Repeat:** "Centuries" by Fall Out Boy and "Up in the Air" by 30 Seconds to Mars. When contemplating a story title and chapter names, it was a carefully calculated toss-up between these two.

**Beta'd** **by:** People Person I'm Not

**Disclaimed.** Hetalia is the property of Hidakez Himaruya and others.

* * *

XXX

* * *

You were the love of my life  
Darkness, the light - this is**  
A Portrait of a Tortured You and I**

_Just_

* * *

XXX

* * *

**1962**

* * *

It's a plain and ordinary day.

Except he can't find that jacket. The black one, the one with the golden buttons, their collective favorite jacket of Germany's. Italy has already scoured their closet, the dresser, and all the laundry baskets in the house. He doesn't need it for anything in particular - it doesn't need washed, it doesn't need worn - but he just wants to hold it. He likes the worn spot on the back, the slight tear in the cuff, the way it smells like Germany.

Germany. He hasn't been home much lately. Government business, he'd excused; Russia - oh, right, the USSR - has been keeping all of them on their toes. Italy doesn't like it much, but his absence is understandable.

Except he wants that jacket, the smell, the _feel_. He can't find it anywhere.

For whatever subconscious reason, it leaves him on the calm verge of panic.

He leans back and rests on his knees after searching their dirty laundry basket for the second time, emitting a nearly inaudible sigh of worry. "Ve... where could it be?" he wonders aloud to himself.

It certainly isn't being used at the moment, because he remembers Germany wearing a dark green coat that morning by the fire before going out to the meeting, and he doesn't have the slightest idea where it would be otherwise! Where would one of them have moved it? _Why_ would one of them have moved it? Germany keeps his things in order, and Italy... well, Italy is admittedly less organized, but that jacket is an untouchable. And it certainly didn't move on its own!

He crosses his arms, uncrosses them, stands up, then promptly wonders why he's standing. Italy doesn't have the slightest idea where to go next. He feels awkwardly lost within his own home - why has this feeling of dread kept creeping up on him? And he wants to find that accursed jacket!

Absently, he glances through all the drawers in their bedroom. In the bathroom. Downstairs, in the kitchen. In Germany's desk in the study -

Oh. There it is!

"Why, hello!" he exclaims as he takes it out. "Ve, how'd you get in there?"

Grinning widely to his eyes, he holds it out at arms-length for admiration. Then, his smile slips a little. He softly frowns, his eyes running over the fabric frantically, in confusion, in something milder than horror but more grotesque than concern. Instead of disappearing, his state of panic begins to rise.

Tentatively, he brings the jacket to his nose.

Out of the million things rushing through his mind, two come to the forefront; two smells, two sickeningly familiar odors that do _not_ belong and make his knees weak.

The jacket. The black jacket that fits Germany perfectly.

The jacket reeks.

He doesn't scream immediately, nor does he cry. Instead he dashes from the study as though his life depends on it, breathing only from the top of his lungs and running, stopping, throwing the protective grate out of the way, and hurling that jacket - that poor, beloved jacket - into the lit fireplace of the living room.

Italy balks for a moment, choking on the awful realization. He wishes that he'd been content to leave well enough alone, that he'd accepted it to being lost and had moved on. But it wasn't lost. Not anymore.

"No," he whispers. "No, no - "

The golden buttons start to melt. The fabric turns to ash. It's too late, because it's already burned in the fire and burned in his mind.

Italy has long since collapsed on the floor in broken sobs.

* * *

He can't be directly confrontational, and he knows it.

He know's what he's like when he's been stirred up into a shuddering rage. He wants to do nothing more than sit upon the carpet and weep into his knees, but he's not going to do that. He also wants nothing more than to rip his world to shreds, limb to limb, and scream, but he's not going to do that, either. He wants neither of these to be his reaction. As it is, however, he's not going to sit by without an answer.

For his first call, there are five rings before there is a click and a familiar voice to greet him.

"Is it - is it true?" Italy balks. For a moment, there is only silence, then - "_Is it true?_" he demands.

Silence is the response - the confirmation.

His hand shaking, he drops the phone onto its hook and goes to calm himself down.

* * *

For his second call, there are twelve rings and no click.

He has to walk away from the phone again.

* * *

For his third call, there are two rings and finally - an honest answer. His conversation with Romano lasts all of thirty seconds. He throws together a suitcase, and he doesn't leave a note. A part of him wants to look back, but (Italy hiccups in the struggle for air) he knows he can't, because this is the only way he can survive this revelation.

It isn't until they get to Switzerland that either of them speak. "Um," Romano tries. "Do you... wanna tell me what the hell happened?"

"...No," Italy says, an odd calm washing over him. The hurt of the day is nowhere close to fading, but knowing that Romano is still in the dark is strangely comforting. So he hadn't been completely blind, at least.

"Well, okay. I mean, you already know what I think of that potato," he counters bluntly. "Otherwise I'd be reassuring the both of us that he deserves to be left like this."

Italy doesn't explicitly reply, but his silence is as good as an admission.

His brother grips the steering wheel a little harder, glancing at the back-seat using his mirrors (hardly containing his questions and concerns and unexpected anger), and Italy barely hears him as Romano tries to keep his opinion to himself:

"What did that _fucker_ do to cause _this_?"

* * *

XXX

* * *

**Historical Notes**

The year listed seems random, but I promise it isn't.

**Additional Author's Notes**

You all probably hate how short this first chapter (prologue?) is. Trust me, I do too - but this is how it worked out.


	2. one

XXX

* * *

**A Portrait of a Tortured You and I**

_Just one_

* * *

XXX

* * *

**November 1989**

* * *

A plain and boring day.

Prussia doubts that anything interesting will happen, and so far nothing has. He reads a bit. He paces. He turns the television on, then promptly turns it off once he's established there's only a shitty movie on and nothing else. He even cleans off some of his tabletops and organizes his drawers, and hell, that's _really_ weird for him. He keeps telling himself that there's no reason, no reason he's on edge, nothing for him to fret over.

Okay, that's a lie, and he knows it.

Fuck.

In two days, he flies to Moscow. In just two days, he's locked back up in the USSR - mostly figuratively, but still much too literally for his liking. There was no formal invitation to come; just some paperwork arriving in the mail, giving him legal permission to travel outside of East German borders. It looks crisp and optional, but Prussia isn't an idiot.

He forces himself to stop wandering aimlessly around his small high-rise apartment and sit in an armchair with a beer. Things could be worse. Really, things _have_ been worse. Russia's usually gentle enough, never letting them starve or stay locked up in their rooms too long. Does he snap, sometimes? - yeah, and that sucks. A few faint scars on Prussia's back tingle as he remembers those fucked-up days. But really, the big guy is usually indifferent enough, and he does let them all go and live in their home nations for a few months, once in a while.

But the thing is, Prussia knows it's all fake. Dammit, that's not freedom. Freedom is not having to adhere to some stupid communist regime run by a foreign government - for fuck's sake, he's the _awesome Prussia_. It's been forty years, but he can still taste that crisp flavor of choice on his tongue and it pisses him off that it's right there, across a stupid wall, in the West that can literally be seen from his small balcony.

And Russia knows this, too. He might be a man of many different moods, but reckless isn't one of them. Right now, though, he's walking a tightrope and starting to lose his balance. Prussia doesn't know the details, because he's only allowed to watch certain television channels, but all the nations behind the Iron Curtain are getting antsier and antsier as their western friends keep expanding and becoming stronger without them. He knows Hungary is on the verge of slipping out of control. Romania's becoming violent, last Prussia heard. And God damn - more than once there've been protests right outside his own window!

The problem?

He pops open his beer. The problem is that it's making Russia squeeze even more tightly. He can lock them all up in his basement, on the one hand, but that means the risk of personifications rebelling together; on the other, he can keep them apart in their own countries, but then the personifications have the chance to interact with their people.

A heavy knock sounds on his door.

...Which leads to, essentially, house arrest. Which happens to be, in Prussia's humble opinion, the biggest load of bullshit he's ever had to deal with.

"I'm still here, bastard!" Prussia shouts.

Whoever it is sighs. "Hey, no need for the names, asshole! It's just me!" a familiar voice shouts back.

The albino thinks about it for a second before setting his beer down. "Did you all change shifts on me again - ? Hold up, I'll let you in."

After a second of fiddling with the lock, he opens the door and steps aside to let the kid pass through the door. "Thanks, Beilschmidt," the soldier says.

"Y'welcome, Schnabel," comes the reply. This actually makes Prussia's mood better; usually a guard will come in and do a brief sweep of the place before giving him grief, but this one - his name's Schnabel - doesn't bother. They usually watch television together instead. They're _friends_, he supposes, although they have to be careful to hide the fact from basically everyone else. "How're things on the street?" he asks as he re-locks the entryway.

A snort, as he settles himself in the customary spot in front of the TV. "That depends on whom you ask. Which description do you want?" Schnabel replies cryptically.

See, that's the thing Prussia likes about this kid. His family's been in the army for generations and generations and appears loyal to their government by all accounts, but they're all really sly little shits. Schnabel claims his grandfather helped out the Allies as some kind of spy during the last World War, and his father would sneak Prussia information from the West when he used to hold the same job. His son, the twenty-something currently lounging on the couch, is even more reckless.

"_All_ descriptions," the nation bites.

The kid gives a low whistle. "Media says everything's dandy. Government says everything's fine, but nobody with any sanity pays attention to them anyway. People, though." He taps his fingers thoughtfully against the armrest. "People might argue with those two descriptions."

Prussia sighs, a little bit of throatiness working its way in, as he sits his ass down as angrily as he can without breaking something. "_Fuck!_ Just when I'm leaving is when shit starts going down." He pauses, rubbing the corners of his eyes for a moment. "What time do you have to be back?"

"Hour or two - I was told to be 'extra careful' when looking around this time. I can stay a while." The kid reaches for the remote and turns the TV on. He makes some odd noise of disgust. "Oh God, what stupid bullshit is _this_?"

"Hell if I know. I'd already turned it off before you showed up." Prussia just leans back in his seat. "I barely pay attention to any of these movies anymore."

They sit like that for a bit, throwing snotty comments back and forth at one another. Schnabel says something about his grandfather trying to walk without assistance and nearly breaking his legs, and Prussia just laughs and promises that (someday) he'll pay the old fart a visit for providing such high-quality entertainment. Schnabel adds that he'd better do it within the next couple of years, after which there's a moment of awkward silence before they change the subject.

A while later, the movie abruptly flickers off and some kind of press conference fills the screen instead. Yeah, that's one of Prussia's bosses. Günter. He isn't awful, but Prussia hasn't exactly been crazy about any of the bosses he's had for the past fifty-something years, so that isn't saying much. Their banter continues, although his attention's shifted slightly.

"How's your cough?" Schnabel asks.

"Doing alright." Prussia's staring at the TV, trying to pay attention as he catches Günter saying something about "eine Reihe von Umständen" - wait, a travel act? What? -

"Good deal. You're always an agitated bastard when you're sick - "

"Schnabel - shut up - "

"We've been through this, I say it with affection - "

"No, _asshole_, I'm trying to listen to what they're saying - "

" - Und deshalb, uh," Günter says (and keeps _stuttering_, the ineloquent pig), "haben wir uns dazu entschlossen, heute, uh, eine Regelung zu treffen, die es jedem Bürger der DDR möglich macht, um, über Grenzübergangspunkte der DDR, uh, auszureisen."

Prussia blinks.

A travel act to open the border for everyone? Not just officials and diplomats? That... no way. _No way._

"Did..." Schnabel balks for a second too. "Did he just say what I think he said?"

"He - no, that can't be right." Prussia's thinking it through at a million miles a second. "If you're going to travel, you still probably need a shit-ton of papers. And we don't know when it goes into effect."

Shit. _Shit_, he was so close there for just a second. He settles back down into his seat, the hope he'd almost had sinking down into his chest again.

They watch the rest of the conference numbly, with Schnabel sensing Prussia's annoyance and Prussia brooding to himself as he finishes off his beer. These government people are all just assholes spewing shit, because none of this is going to apply to him. Russia'll have him under control by the time any of this becomes official, he knows. Dammit. Dammit dammit _dammit_.

"Wann tritt das in Kraft?" a journalist asks.

"Oh, who gives a fuck?" Prussia groans aloud. When will it be effective? _Not soon enough_ is the God damned answer, and with that thought ringing through his head he nearly misses the next bit -

Günter shuffles his papers around and generally looks baffled for a moment, then says, "Das tritt nach meiner Kenntnis ist das sofort - " A pause. " - unverzüglich."

He - _what_?

"Unverzüglich," a woman softly repeats in the broadcast.

Unverzüglich. Immediately. Effective immediately.

_Effective immediately, the border is open to all citizens of the DDR._

Prussia stands up and knocks his empty beer can onto the floor. "_What?_"

Schnabel's jaw is completely slack, and his eyes are huge. "Holy shit - did they just - ?"

"I think they did. _I think they did!_" He's actually shaking, _what the hell_, and his mouth drops open as he realizes - "Schnabel, holy fuck, _I DO have papers!_"

"You _do?_"

Prussia scrambles over toward the kitchen counter, where he has - there they are! He snatches them and runs to the doorway back toward the couch. "_Papers!_" he cackles in triumph. "_I have papers to travel!_"

"Holy shit!"

His breath catches in his throat. "I can go," he whispers. "I - oh, shit - " He whirls around. Where the hell is his passport? "_I need to go now!_"

"_Now?_" Schnabel's starting toward the kitchen. "I get the enthusiasm, but - "

"What if they change their minds?" Prussia scatters some newspapers from the kitchen table onto the floor because _shit fuck dammit where did he set his passport?_ "I'm a little bit _not a fucking average citizen thank you very much_ \- they could be sending more soldiers here to try and make sure I don't leave within the hour - "

"Passport's in your spice-rack, asshole!" Schnabel runs over and unlocks the door out. "I can buy you time and say that you went to bed early."

"At _six-o-fucking-clock_?"

"You've had a cold! _They know that!_"

"Holy shit - " Prussia grabs his ratty old coat and zips it so quickly it almost breaks. Passport in the pocket, papers in hand. This might actually work - this is _happening_! " - _You're the fucking best!_ I'm getting the hell out of here! _Right now! Holy shit!_"

Schnabel just smiles that shit-eating grin of his. "Damn right I'm the fucking best."

"I'll visit you!" The albino practically jumps on him. "Fuck, I'll visit your whole God damn family! Just not right now, okay?"

"You bastard, you'll probably give Opa a heart-attack!"

"Too late, I'm out of here! Can't redact it!" Prussia takes off and positively flies down the hallway to the complex, his ecstatic guffaws echoing off the walls. "Later, asshat!"

* * *

The minutes following are _surreal_.

Normally it takes him around five minutes to briskly walk from the door to the apartment to the nearest checkpoint to cross Die Mauer, but this time it probably takes him about two to sprint that same distance. Right as he shows up, a small crowd is forming - people. _Excited_ people. People who are talking and reasoning with the border patrol in elevated shouts and barely-contained enthusiasm.

"'Scuse me!" He hurriedly pushes through toward the front of the few dozen people. "Coming through!"

The others closest to the checkpoint are the loudest, with the most fire in their voices. "But come on!" one says. "We aren't making this up!" says another. "We have to _wait_?" someone else shouts.

Oh no.

"_Shit!_" he hisses to himself. He can't get through now? He looks for a moment before spotting the nearest guard, some middle-aged man with a beer gut whom he approaches without any further ado. "What's going on here?"

The guy shrugs, looking a little annoyed at all the fuss. "Radio says we open the border at midnight - you all are jumping the gun by a long shot."

Oh, fuck. If he were optimistic then yeah, sure, midnight would be fine, but right now he can't afford that. He just doesn't _have_ until midnight; any second now, he's paranoid that the soldiers who are supposed to be keeping him under house arrest are going to realize what's going on and show up and drag him back, and he's going to _scream_ if he loses this chance.

"What about people with papers?" he suddenly realizes.

The guard's taken aback. "Do you _have_ papers?"

"_Yes!_" He shoves them forward and unzips his pocket (shit, his hands need to _stop shaking_) to retrieve his passport. "And I need to get through _now_!" he adds.

"Yeah," a random girl standing nearby jumps in, "if he did his homework, just let the bastard through!"

They both barely give her a glance, although Prussia has to stifle the urge to smirk at her enthusiasm. The guard lets out a huff of annoyance seemingly directed at life in general. "Don't push your luck, kids."

Prussia feels the sting (fuck no he isn't some _kid_) but is wise enough to hold his tongue - getting on the bad side of these guys is _not_ a good idea. The guard glances the papers over, frowns a bit to himself, then whistles to another one of his compatriots. "Hey, are they allowed to go through early with papers?"

Guard Number Two appears more than fed up with the commotion and just rolls his eyes. "Might as well."

"For the love of God." The first guy glances Prussia over one more time before shoving his papers back into his (subconsciously reaching) hand. "Get going, before a lot of people notice."

* * *

Neon.

Fucking neon.

_Neon - absolutely everywhere!_

He's literally stopped in the middle of the fucking sidewalk - is he high? he feels kind of high - because the streets look so different in ways he can't name but could only have dreamed up. Hell, he's still not sure he isn't dreaming, because the biggest difference, of course, happens to be the alluring neon lights. Holy _shit_. He'd seen them from the windows high up in his apartment, to be sure, but he'd never pictured that they'd line the street up and down and glow at him as if to say _Hello_ or _Welcome_ or _We missed you across the wall_.

He swallows a strange lump in his throat. Like hell the Awesome Prussia is going to cry over something like _this_.

Apparently his expression draws attention. "You alright there?" a blond teenager abruptly stops to ask him. "You look kind of dazed."

Dazed? That's probably a really good word for it, actually. "Yeah, I..."

Wait. He frowns to himself and never finishes his sentence.

"...Uh," the kid tries, "can I help you with something?"

What's... what's he supposed to do now?

There are a lot of things he wants to say in the moment, the least of which is something really lame like, "Um." He wants to answer this kid honestly, with something like, "No, thanks though. I just got through Die Mauer - _the fucking wall_ \- completely legally, when it's been haunting me for so many damn years, and you better believe that it's overwhelming. I've pictured this moment down to the last second _way_ too many times for my own good, and I wanna do everything and it's so fucking hard to take in - I wanna walk down Kurfürstendamm, I wanna go to see a Mercedes store, I wanna just stand here for a second and appreciate that there isn't shit all over these clean streets. I kinda wanna cry, to be honest. I wanna scream and shout. Holy fuck, you don't understand - I'm free!"

What he actually says is a single syllable. "Um."

Yeah, he's so God damned eloquent all right.

"So... are you lost?" the teen tries again.

Wow, he's actually being really nice, and it's because of that that Prussia's brain kicks into gear. Swallow that lump, dammit. "Actually, yeah. I - I kinda am."

"Where are you going?"

He blinks, and he realizes all at once that this blond has the most piercing blue eyes he's ever seen. No, the second most piercing blue. There's only been one other person whose eyes were the same bright color -

_(the last time I saw him he was skin and bones - ) _

\- and the memory wrenches him unexpectedly in the gut.

Prussia thinks about it for just a second, about all the ideas that ran through his head and all the ridiculously simple things he wants to do, before he consciously realizes what he actually needs.

"I need to get to the police station," he says calmly.

* * *

As much as he'd like to do the other stuff on his mind, he does have one outstanding priority.

"You need to call _where_?" the officer gapes, obviously skeptical (to say the least) at making a long-distance phone call to such a high office.

Prussia sighs. He's already explained how he got across the wall, and now he's just getting annoyed. "Yeah, long story. I got family out in... Bonn, I think. One of them works for the government - I know this is odd, but it's really important that I contact them as soon as I possibly can."

"Do you know what kind of _phone bill_ that'll rack up?"

Not a pretty one, probably. "He has money," Prussia tries. "He practically owns the military of West Germany!"

Okay, that just makes the poor guy look scared out of his mind. "And who the heck are _you_ to be calling a guy like _that_?"

Prussia has to hold back an annoyed grimace. He knows he doesn't look the part, but holy shit; since when did running out of your apartment in house-clothes and a ratty-ass coat to sneak across the border under your bosses' noses mean the same as "being nobody of importance?" He's excited to be out of there, granted, but he's also _really_ tired of people thinking they have authority over him and not being able to give anyone hell for it.

Instead, he deadpans, "Well _excuse me_, but I happen to be this guy's brother."

If the officer internally questions how a refugee from across Die Mauer has a brother _that_ powerful living in the West, he doesn't mention it out loud. Instead, he just hands the phone over with a strangely blank face and quietly orders, "Don't take too long."

So Prussia takes a deep breath, silently praying that he hasn't run out of luck yet today, and dials the first number.

First, he has to go through an operator in West Berlin, then to an operator in Bonn, then to a foreign office secretary of some kind, then to another secretary, and after that he loses track of the times he switches departments. He'd expected it'd be complicated - nations are pretty high up in the political food chain, after all - but holy fuck is it hard to not lose patience with anybody for this shit. Do they realize that he hasn't talked to his brother without high-ranking communist officials in the same room for _years_? He hasn't been able to get a phone call in without at least six months advance preparation, or had permission to talk for more than two hours at a time. Prussia hasn't even seen him, in person or in photographs, since _fucking 1945_! That's why he's almost ready to scream when it's suddenly nearly ten o'clock at night before he finally hears -

"One moment please," a chipper young woman iterates. "I have Mr. Beilschmidt's personal number right here."

Even before the phone disconnects from her line as the call transfers, the albino's emotions have swung completely around and he's already begun panicking.

Oh shit, this is _happening_.

Prussia can't breathe. It's ringing, once, twice, steadily, and oh God he can't breathe - he's calling his brother, unscheduled, unsupervised, _freely_, and what the hell is he going to say when it connects? Will he even be able to say anything? Oh shit, _oh shit_ -

_Click._

"Alright, fine. What is it _this_ time, Francis?" Germany's grumpy tone cuts through.

He freezes completely. That's - that's Germany. That's his brother. That's _Ludwig_. Germany has no idea whom he's talking to, and Prussia has no idea what to say now that the moment is actually here. Does he just... act casual about it? Or does he ask to make absolutely sure he's talking to the right person? Or does he -

"Hello?"

He must have stayed silent for a little too long. Germany sounds confused. Hell, so is Prussia, to be honest.

"Ha... hallo, Bruder," he manages through his dry throat. "Wie geht's?"

It's possible that he imagines it, but Prussia swears that he hears furniture scraping against the floor - Germany must have stood up at his desk, and forcefully. For a moment, there's a pause. Then:

"_GILBERT?_"

Prussia'd been expecting a reaction, but he almost drops the phone out of surprise from the sheer volume of Germany's response. He holds the receiver away from his head for a moment, just to make sure no other loud outbursts follow, then puts it back to his ear. "Well, yeah. Hi."

"What are you _doing_?" (Prussia almost answers, but then one question quickly becomes a barrage.) "Where'd you get a phone? How the hell have you not been caught? Or do your bosses know about this? Or is there some restriction that's been lifted that I haven't heard about? Or is it - "

"Holy shit, calm down!" Despite himself, Prussia realizes he's grinning from ear to ear. And... does this mean Germany doesn't know about the travel act?

Fucking _yes_!

"You really haven't heard the news?" he cackles. "Oh man, this is _awesome_!"

"What? What news? Did something major happen?" It sounds like he's having a panic attack at the spontaneity of it all. Figures.

"Major? _Major?_ _They opened up the fucking border!_" Prussia crows. "_Surprise!_ Günter, that stupid pig, accidentally took down the legal force of Die Mauer as of midnight tonight, and I had the papers to travel outside of East Germany, so I waltzed myself the hell across a checkpoint into West Berlin!"

"_What?_"

"It's true! I'm at one of your police stations on the corner of - " He half-turns from the phone to ask the officer on duty, "Hey, where are we?"

"It doesn't matter," Germany cuts in. He suddenly sounds... not short of breath, exactly, but like he's unable to get the proper amount of air into his lungs. Like he's _excited_. When was the last time Prussia'd heard him sound excited about anything? Damn, why does this make his chest feel so heavy all of a sudden?

"Do you... do you want me to get to Bonn somehow?" he asks with a dry swallow.

"No - no!" Germany cuts in insistently. "It's quicker if we go about this the other way around."

His heart jumps. _What?_ "You mean," he manages to say, "that you're coming _here_?"

"My bosses would likely send me anyway." Prussia can practically hear the rare smile stretched across his brother's face. "I can probably make it in around two hours. Where will you be?"

He almost says, "I'm at the police station, you dumbass - can't you find me here?" but then he realizes that Germany's giving him an out - the opportunity to do all the stupidly simple things he wanted to do after crossing the wall. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just thinking through the list in his head, before he realizes the best answer.

"I wanna see the French side of Brandenburger Tor again," he grins.

* * *

"_Der Wahnsinn!_" they cry. "_Der Wahnsinn!_"

The madness. The absolute fucking _madness_.

Part of it is that Prussia's slightly drunk. The news had spread quickly (West Berliners could get East German programming, obviously), and all of a sudden he'd found himself in the middle of a crowd of excited Westerners next to a keg - leave it to the Germans to bring beer to the party. He'd already meandered through Tiergarten, just trying to stay sane in the midst of all of that was going on, he'd gotten a healthy look at Kurfürstendamm at night, almost breaking down at the simplistic sight of a street belonging to the West, and he'd even gotten a good eyeful of the high-quality cars lining the streets. After that, he hadn't seen any reason to ignore the alcohol. People are slapping each other on their backs, counting down the mere seconds left until midnight, dancing in the street, waiting patiently and oh-so-impatiently for the time to arrive. Someone on the East German side is setting off an occasional firework.

He takes another swig of the champagne bottle someone'd passed around to him, his back directly against the wrong side of the wall he'd never _dreamed_ of crossing, and yells along with them at the top of his lungs. "Tor auf! _TOR AUF! Open the gate!_"

"Hey, asshole! _Beilschmidt!_ Get up here!"

He turns around before realizing that duh, there's a fucking wall there. Then he glances up and - "What the hell are you doing up _there_?" he gapes.

"Getting the party started!" Schnabel - still in his military uniform, what the fuck - grins. He's kneeling and reaching his hand out _from on top of the fucking wall_ down toward Prussia. "They're not even trying to get people the hell away on my side, so chances of them shooting at you are pretty much nil."

Damn, that's good enough for him. He staggers a little bit as he scrambles upward, but once he gets his balance on the edge he gapes a bit at the view of the crowd, the fucking _huge_ crowd that's overtaking both sides of this shitty bit of brick and concrete. "God damn," he breathes. This is fucking _beautiful_. Soon other people are joining them up top, climbing up and crying to the masses.

"Glad to see you got through," Schnabel says to him, still smiling. "The guards were freaking the fuck out about you three hours ago, but they realized almost right away that you were so fucking gone that there was hardly a point in calling for a search."

"_Good_," Prussia exhales. "How the hell did _you_ find me?"

"I know you; it was a lucky guess that you'd be at the center of the action." The kid winks. "Brandenburger Tor looks a little different from this angle, eh? - "

A church bell chimes.

"_MIDNIGHT!_" comes the collective scream.

Prussia cackles again. "_DER WAHNSINN!_"

"_TOR AUF!_" Schnabel shouts back to the crowd.

"_DER WAHNSINN! TOR AUF!_" everyone echoes.

The madness begins.

From the east side, it's a mad dash to the foot of the wall. Prussia grabs at them indiscriminately, pulling them up to the top, and the Westerners help them back down. Over and over and over and over and over, they make that jump to the side of Berlin they were never meant to experience. If he'd felt high before, it was nothing compared to the cloud nine Prussia was experiencing now. It might be some unique nation-related endorphin flooding his human body, but he hasn't felt this alive in years -

Something tingles on the back of his neck.

"What's wrong?" Schnabel asks, noticing that Prussia's paused in the celebration.

"I..." he trails off. What _is_ he stopping for? He glances over the crowd in the east, but he quickly realizes that they aren't it. He turns, confused and not sure why he's suddenly so on-edge, to look to the west. What is...?

There's a blond, slightly taller than everyone else, pushing his way through the outskirts of the chaos.

Prussia freezes.

"Oi, bastard, what's going on?" Schnabel tries again.

"That's..." He can't speak, oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. "Schnabel, I gotta go," he tries again. "I - I see my brother."

The soldier briefly turns around to glance in that direction before apparently realizing that spotting someone he doesn't know would be impossible. "Well, why the fuck are you still standing up here? Go to him, dumbass!"

He does.

He jumps off the wall without having anyone break his fall, and he almost immediately gets to his feet and starts charging. Shoving, pushing, pulling at arms, whatever it takes - he battles his way through the insanity as the celebration continues on around him. "'S tut mir leid!" he occasionally says. "Entschuldigung!" He has to bob up and down to try and see over everyone, with moderate success, and when he finally makes it to the thinner areas of the crowd he pauses frantically to whirl around and try to find that one familiar face. No, fuck, where'd he go? Germany _has_ to be close by -

"_GILBERT!_"

He turns over his shoulder.

He notices the blond hair first, again, then the shape of the face with the strong jaw-line and he almost thinks that it's familiar before the truth hits him and he suddenly can't quite breathe. Finally -

"Oh - Gott," he chokes out. "_Scheisse - !_"

He doesn't even remember the moment when he begins sprinting, but he's all too aware that they're both going at a break-neck pace as his eyes remain locked onto Germany's face, indiscriminately shoving everyone aside without apology as he screams back, "_LUDWIG!_"

They're there, and as fucking cheesy as it sounds, time stops. When the hell did Germany get taller than Prussia? (_Holy shit - _) When did he get so much muscle mass? (_Holy shit!_) When - when did he grow up? (_HOLY SHIT!_) He'd been on the verge of adulthood during the war, and now he _is_ the adult - _what the fuck - ?_

"_Ludwig_," he repeats himself. When did Prussia start shaking? Oh God, he's losing his mind -

Germany doesn't answer right away, because suddenly Prussia's engulfed in the most bone-crushing hug he can remember ever receiving, and - no, wait, that's not right. It's a bone-crushing hug being _returned_ to him. He doesn't even remember jumping to hold onto Germany's shoulders, but that's exactly what he's doing, and holy fuck, he's unconsciously grabbed onto the back of Germany's hair and squeezing to make sure that this is something real and not just his imagination.

"I-it's okay to cry," Germany whispers. Wait, fuck, is he crying? His little brother's _crying_? Or is - is he talking to Prussia or to himself?

But it doesn't really matter in the end, because Prussia does the only thing he _can_ do anymore as he buries his head into his brother's neck and finally lets go of the emotions he's been fighting for the past fifty years and just _sobs_. And people around them scream and cheer - maybe for their nations but really just for the two of them. And for that instant, as East Berlin shoots off more fireworks and the madness echoes throughout the night, surrounded by the perfect revolution, Prussia senses that this is a moment he'll hold onto for centuries to come.

After so long, he's finally _free_.

* * *

XXX

* * *

**A Historical Rant Related to This Chapter**

I'm assuming that I'm writing to a demographic of young people somewhere between the ages of 13-30, probably. I fall in the middle of that range myself, so the struggle to understand what I'm about to say is not just yours but also my own. Everything I'm about to describe is something that I also can only attempt to fathom.

None of us can comprehend what the fall of the Berlin Wall meant and still means to the Germans.

None of us can even begin to realize how monumental this was. None of us were alive - if some of you were alive, there's a very good chance that you were so young you don't remember it. Even if you were alive and do remember it, if you're reading this then there's a good chance that you're not German. I'm not directly from Germany myself, but I've learned about this event in two different languages and in multiple contexts, one of which was while I was _literally_ standing underneath the Brandenburg Gate. I don't consider myself an expert, but this is what I've learned about it.

Guys. _Guys. _

The closest thing I can associate an event like this with, in our world today, is if North Korea and South Korea were to suddenly start letting people cross the border without any physical resistance. (This isn't a perfect analogy for multiple reasons, but we're gonna run with it.) Think about that for a second; picture the scenario in your head. Can you imagine the frenzy that would take place? Can you imagine the excitement? Can you imagine the awe? Two countries that were never meant to be split - _families that were never meant to be split, guys!_ \- suddenly allow that barrier between them to be torn down because the stars just happen to align. _That's_ what happened on November 9, 1989 in Berlin.

_And nobody ever thought it would ever happen!_ Communism was weakening in Eastern Europe by 1989, but _oh my God_, the fall of the Berlin Wall? _Reu__nification?_ Never! Maybe, like, 100 years down the road. There were two distinct Germanies by 1989, and people were so damn sure that there would _always_ be two Germanies. But _guys_ \- in less than a year everything just slid into place through so many coincidences and suddenly the border was open, and _less than a year after that German reunification happened. Nobody thought it was going to happen until it actually did!_

_Guys!_ Some Germans still weep over this, more than 25 years later. Hell, my German teacher from high school consistently cried over this when it came up in class, _almost_ _25 years later_. If people still feel emotional over this now, we can't even begin to picture the absolute madness that took place when it actually happened (_DER WAHNSINN! DER WAHNSINN!_). We can look up the videos and we can read the articles, but this is an incredibly difficult thing to fathom emotionally. I can't even begin to imagine it sometimes, to be honest.

But the point of this rant is that I tried like hell to fit the depth, emotion, and absolutely surreal sense of this event in this story. _That's_ what the spirit of history is about. _That's_ what happened in Berlin on November 9. _That's_ what this chapter is supposed to be.

(/not crying I swear)

Carry on.

**(The More Official-Sounding) Historical Notes**

That press conference described from television is literally a copy-paste of the official transcript of the event with some translation thrown in. The guy who does most of the talking, Günter Schabowski, wasn't technically the boss of the GDR, but he _was_ the central committee spokesperson, which was pretty darn important. Thanks to his little screw-up with the timing of opening the border, he's one of the major reasons German reunification happened the way it did.

The woman mentioned at the conference is Helga Labs. She was also pretty important in the GDR but not so relevant to the border opening.

And fun fact: apparently the press conference did, in fact, interrupt a "stupid movie." That's an exact quote from someone who was there, not my opinion.

Speaking of: I'm sort of mixing up sources for how everything went down on Nov. 9, 1989. On one hand, there's a specific first-hand account I read from an East German who said that he was able to cross The Wall to hang out in West Berlin for a day _only_ because he happened to have the right papers, while a lot of other secondary sources imply that there was the TV announcement and then BOOM, chaos at the border immediately afterward. A lot of the information in this chapter, especially Prussia's reactions to things in the West, include a healthy dose of that first-hand interview, while a lot of the others are based on news sources and scholarly information I found online. (And people actually _were_ chanting "Der Wahnsinn"/"The madness" and "Tor auf"/"Open the gate" that night. Also, amusingly, I wrote that last scene before I found a good source that described that night specifically instead of the following ones - and, apparently, what I'd already written out was correct almost down to a T. _Boom_.)

Everyone's seen a photo of Brandenburger Tor/the Brandenburg Gate, I guarantee you (it's that column formation with the bronze statue of a chariot on top - Google it, if nothing else), but I have a fun little informal story about it. So at the beginning of the 1800s, Napoleon's conquering basically everything in Europe and (in the process) stealing some of their cool artwork and stuff. One of these things that got stolen happened to be the statue on top of this gate, and the Prussians, who founded/controlled the city, were rightfully _pissed_ about it. I can't remember how many years later they got it back, but when they did they purposely put the statue back up facing in the opposite direction from before - to the east, _facing_ _away from France_ \- in probably one of the more subtle "the hell with the French" gestures the world has ever seen. (It's like Prussia was a teenager who decided to give France the silent treatment for borrowing his favorite CD without permission, and this mental picture totally kills me.)

Anyway, Brandenburger Tor was technically on the East German side of Die Mauer but stuck in the middle of "no-man's land," where nobody was allowed to get close to the wall (because, if close enough, you could get over it). Unsurprisingly, a ton of iconic photos were taken there during that November.

Tiergarten is a park next to the Bundestag (the current main government building) and Brandenburger Tor. It's huge and gorgeous.

Kurfürstendamm is a famous avenue. Wikipedia equates it to "the Champs-Élysées of Berlin," if that means anything to y'all.

Also, since this is something I _know_ I'm going to mix up at some point, I'm just going to clear it up now: _the GDR and the DDR are the same thing_. One is the abbreviation for "German Democratic Republic" in English, and the other one is "Deutsche Demokratische Republik" in German (I've learned about it in both English and German, so I think of its two names equally and can't always remember which one I'm using in any given paper/story). Both names essentially mean "East Germany." Sorry for any confusion this might cause!

(Related note: in case it wasn't obvious, Die Mauer = German for "the wall." No further specification is needed in German to know that you're talking about the _Berlin_ Wall - that's how deeply rooted this is in their culture.)

**Additional Author's Notes**

That OC Schnabel is mostly here because I want him to be, although giving Prussia someone to talk to is _probably_ important for the sake of the story-telling. His granddaddy and, by extension, his surname both hold a special place in my heart. :) He probably won't show up again, but if he does it won't be for long.

If things seem oddly positive right now compared to the prologue/first chapter, I'll let you know that you're not crazy. The plot gets a bit more depressing after this.


End file.
